to such wild talk? I suppose he will use the poor
deluded wretch gently and kindly, that's his nature; but sure he will
scorn his ravings?'

'I cannot tell what Andrew may think in his heart,' says Harry moodily;
'but he uses the man as if he thought him a saint or a martyr, or both.
I wish harm may not come of this day's doings;' and he fell into a
gloomy silence.

I had never seen him look so nearly angry before. We were now got to the
Parsonage, and Harry arousing himself to take leave of us, our aunt says
to him,--

'I shall ask you to do me a great good turn, by bringing your father to
sup with us at the Grange. I would have him reason peaceably with yon
poor distraught man, and convince him of his folly; so he may do a
service to my Andrew also, if he has indeed a leaning to such
delusions.'

'Well, madam, I will do it for you,' said Harry; 'but there is only one
other person in the world to please whom I would bring my father into
such odd company as yon man's;' and he went in, looking but half
pleased; and as we took our way to the Grange I was musing who that
other person might be Harry was so fain to please.

When we got into the hall we saw Andrew sitting there and talking with
the stranger, who was now clothed like any other man. His face had been
bruised and his hair torn by the violence of the people; but, for all
these disfigurements, I, looking earnestly at him, could see he was the
very one the sight of whose ill-usage had so moved Andrew on our
journey; there was the same composed look, and the same strange inward
light in his eye.

He rose when he saw Aunt Golding come in, saluting her with the words,
'Peace be to thee!' on which she, gravely smiling, said,--

'You did not bring peace with you to our place of worship, sir; but I
trust no one will break your peace in my house, where you are welcome to
rest and refresh you this day.'

'No man can break my peace,' said he, 'my soul being ever at rest in
the Holy City, the New Jerusalem.'

'That's a good resting-place indeed,' said our aunt. 'Will you tell me
by what name I am to call you while you stay here? I think no one in our
village knows who you are.'

'Not every one can know my name, but they that have the Light,' said the
man; 'and the world can never know it.'

'But sure, man, you have a name of your own by which the world does know
you,' said our aunt a little impatiently.

'I wish not to deny it,' he replied; 'therefore fret no